The Lingering Death of Hope

Warning: This is just another record of my breakdown, since nobody else reads this. If you stumbled here by accident, just move along.

 

It was my first Fantasycon this past weekend. And probably my last. I go to conventions in hopes of finding someone to talk to about writing and stuff. Among those who share my interests. But I’m still unable to talk to anyone, and too broken to change. Conventions are primarily social events, and unless you already have friends there, they can just be isolating. You’re still an outsider.

Even talking to a casual acquaintance, with whom I’d shared only a few emails, took a ridiculous amount of effort, and internal argument (is it politer to introduce myself, or not to bother them? They’d certainly have no reason to want to know me.) And when they ask how I’m enjoying the event, why don’t I lie and mouth pleasantries? Honesty is never welcome. And should I have reminded them where we’d connected, in case they thought I was just some random nutter (not necessarily untrue)?

That may actually have been the first time I tried to reach out to someone at one of these things. Still, I should have known better. I’m usually held back by having run through the scenario to work out what to say, to a couple of levels, so we’re not immediately freezing in awkward silence. But I acted on impulse, which of course ended with me feeling like an idiot.

Neuroses and existential despair took hold as the weekend went on, the future opening up a vista of isolation, with death the only respite.

Yet still that treasonous sliver of hope won’t quite die, promising, against all logic and reason, that things can get better. That I can connect with someone.

Even though I know this is a lie. All hope does is enhance the anguish, preventing me withdrawing from the world and submitting to the march to death in defeat.

Still, Bristolcon is at the end of the month. Maybe I’ll finally be able to kill off the remains of my soul there.

Here’s hoping.

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